Member-only story
I Keep Finding Clues, and Maybe I Left Them for Myself
A mythic essay on time, memory, and the nature of truth
I don’t know when I first realized I’d been here before. Not here as in this city, or this moment…but here, in this pattern. This ache. This strange ache that feels less like pain and more like déjà vu in the soul.
I’ve spent most of my life looking for something I couldn’t name. I read myths like they were manuals. I studied science as if it were scripture. I touched everything with the suspicion that it might speak to me. And slowly, something began to whisper back.
It started happening more often. I’d be in the middle of something ordinary, washing dishes, folding laundry, and suddenly I’d feel it: that sense that someone had left me a note I hadn’t noticed before. A whisper hidden under the noise. A pattern beneath the chaos. The way my bones responded to certain stories. Prometheus. Inanna. The woman who looked back. They didn’t feel like myths. They felt like messages.
What if these stories aren’t fiction? What if they’re reminders? What if Prometheus wasn’t a tale but a warning? What if Inanna’s descent was not a metaphor, but a map?
I began to wonder if we didn’t just tell stories, perhaps we encoded ourselves into them. Not just culturally…
